Adoile
by WillieHewes
Summary: If anything was sacred to Raziel, it was this. His spirit loosed itself from its body and opened its eyes. He could see the candles, but their flames were like ice. He was still in the crypt, and yet somewhere completely different. He called out for her.
1. Taxes

ADOILEI - TAXES  
  
Birktal was a fairly small town to the south, near the border with Rahab's territory. It was nestled in slowly undulating hills, once heavily forested, now barren and covered in snow.  
  
"It's a horrible disease, slowly waning the sick until they have no strength left."   
  
"They have lost many, especially the young."   
  
"I am certain it is not for lack of loyalty, my Lord. They have offered to compensate in coin..."  
  
The snow creaked underfoot, the road had not been travelled since yesterday. The morning was crisp and clear, the biting smell of frost not unwelcome to a nose used to smoke and soot. The march to Birktal was long, but pleasant. The hoar-covered, straggled trees pleased Raziel, there was a beauty to the deathly stillness like to that of marble saints. The cold did not bother him, he was wearing a fur-lined topcoat simply because it fit the season, and because of the relative anonymity it allowed him. Marching alone, without his name-signet visible, his people would not know him, though his alabaster skin, dark lips and cloven hands clearly marked him out as a powerful vampire. He did not disbelieve that Birktal and its neighbouring villages were plagued by a disease, but he wanted to see the state of things for himself before he would exempt them from this season's blood taxes.   
  
From a distance, the village seemed as still as its surroundings. Raziel passed a tall sign bearing the town's name, as well as his clan's sign, which meant 'protected by' and 'property of' at the same time. There was no one out on the dirt streets, shutters were closed, only the smoking chimneys indicated there was anyone left alive at all. Raziel made his way to the main square without meeting a single soul. The small brick and wood houses looked old, dilapidated. An empty pigsty leaned wearily against a cracked wall. He could sense the disease, as if it had seeped into the dirt of the roads itself.  
  
He stood, looking down into the frost covered well when hasty footsteps made him turn around. A burly man with large hands and grey streaks in his beard approached him.   
  
"My Lord!" He bowed deeply. "Welcome to our humble village. To what do we owe this -- unexpected visit?"  
  
"And you are?" Raziel asked without being unfriendly.  
  
"Janek Janesson, Lord, a butcher. At your service." He bowed again.  
  
"I wish to hear about the disease that plagues this village. How many were lost; who they were. Can you tell me these things?"   
  
"Yes, of course, my Lord. Please follow me to my home, the hearth is warm and my wife will be honoured to recieve you."  
  
Raziel nodded regally and made to join the man back down the street he had come down. Just then, his sharp ears picked up a snatch of an ethereal sound -- voices singing. It stung his ears like a false note and he stopped dead in his tracks. The man looked at him fearfully. Raziel turned one ear in the direction the sound was coming from. Up ahead. It seemed to grow stronger as he concentrated on it, it echoed chillingly inside his mind. He gritted his teeth.  
  
"What is that?" he growled. "What's up there?" He pointed up a gravel street that led up a slow incline, seemingly into the more well-off part of town. The houses were bigger, with tiled roofs instead of thatch. They looked as neglected and dilapidated as anything in the village though. The man stared at him, terrified.  
  
"My Lord, please forgive them," he gushed. "In these troubled times, they turn back to their false God, they --"   
  
Raziel interrupted him with an abrupt gesture demanding for him to lead him there. Raziel did not wait, and started walking, the mortal stumbling on behind him.  
  
"They are but simple countryfolk. Please, don't... don't let the Lord know! They don't know what they're doing!"   
  
The building the voices were coming from looked like an ordinary house, with dark wooden beams interrupting the cracked plaster. Although it did not bear any holy symbols, Raziel knew it for what it was immediately. The man's fear was not groundless. He had dealt harshly with the religious, in the past. The hymn was like a stinging insect trapped inside his head. Its buzz was sharp and insistent, but he was determined to ignore it. "Are they praying for the sick?" he asked.   
  
"No," the man said, "they pray for the soul of Fransson's little girl. She died these four days hence. Please, let us leave these people to their grief. They do not deserve your wrath, my Lord." He bowed his head, aware of the impertinence of his words. Raziel had always had a weak spot for people who did not hide their hearts' feelings.  
  
"I am not angry," he said, "but I do not like this. This God, I fear, will do nothing to relieve their suffering, but he will turn them away from their true Lord and leave them without comfort in the end." The man nodded. "The people who till my lands are my concern," Raziel said. "What grieves them grieves me as well."  
  
"Your lands? You mean you're.... You are Lord Raziel?" The man fell to his knees in the snow and stammered incoherently.  
  
Raziel put his hand on the man's winter cap for a moment. "I am. Now get to your feet, Janek Janesson, and go open the door for me."  
  
As the door opened, the singing stopped abruptly. Raziel was grateful for it. He did not hesitate on the threshold; he knew he would not burst into flames if he entered this holy place, as some of the wilder legends claimed. And yet, there was a palpable sting -- a subdermal twinge of pain as he stepped inside. There was only one large room under this roof, with rows of simple wooden chairs all facing the far wall. There was a simple altar there, with only the barest religious accoutrements. In front of the altar was a man with a long face and a bald head, who regarded him with surprise, but no malice. Every chair in the building was occupied, and Raziel finally realised why the village had seemed so deserted. As he walked up the short aisle, he could hear his whispered name proceed him. Although his eyes seemed fixed on the plain wooden coffin in front of the altar, he could see the stares from this ragged crowd, some fearful, some hateful, some openly admiring.   
  
"Don't you dare!" a sharp, ragged voice called from the first row as he approached the simple casket set up in front of the altar. A gaunt woman had stood up and turned around to face him. Perhaps she had once been beautiful, but now she looked old beyond her years; sorrow had worn deep grooves into her face. Her mourner's garb hung from her bones like strips of dried meat, but her eyes burned intensely. "Stay away from her, vampire, her soul belongs to the Lord!" Raziel had never hated the word vampire, but from her lips, it sounded like a curse.  
  
"But I am her Lord," he answered. The woman was forcefully pulled back down into her chair by the man beside her.  
  
"You are the lord of beasts!" she yelled, before her cries were muffled by the hands of her beloved.   
  
"Please, don't listen to her," a man's voice called. The husband, perhaps. Raziel did not see him, he was looking down at the deceased girl. "She has lost five children these two years, the grief has driven her mad!"   
  
"She knows not what she says!" another voice added.  
  
They had neatly laid out the dead, with the hands on her chest and the head slightly propped up. The wasting effects of the disease were still visible, she was almost skeletal. The eyes were sunken and dark, and her skin looked brittle and dry, but he could still see the beauty that she had been. Her auburn curls must have been rich and lively, her lips were excuisitely shaped and her tender face was still childlike, though she stood at the threshold of womanhood. He gazed down on her corpse, moving around the coffin slowly, while the entire assembly seemed to hold its breath.   
  
"I forgive you your madness, woman," he said softly, but loud enough to be heard. "It would pain anyone to see such beauty -- die." Suddenly, following an impulse he had not recognised, he put his hand on her chest. He had to know if she was still there. He reached out in spirit, but was immediately recoiled by the same sting he had felt on crossing the threshold, but much stronger now, penetrating his very soul. He gritted his teeth, and gripped the edge of the box tightly, his claws grooving the wood. When he opened his eyes, he noticed there was a plump hand on his forearm. The priest.   
  
The man looked at him, imploringly. "My Lord," he said softly, and shook his head. "This one has suffered enough." His eyes had the calculated meekness of the true believer; they smiled with the knowledge that he was right, and that that was more important than loyalty, or power, or nobility. Raziel bared his teeth, and jerked his hand away.   
  
"Then I will make sure she shall suffer no more," he said, and lifted the lifeless girl out of the casket. The mother howled, and a scandalised whisper swept through the church. Holding the limp corpse in his arms, he walked back to the door. It was held open by Janesson, who avoided his eyes. Just before he passed him, he proclaimed: "Come spring, you will pay your taxes as usual." The only reply was a despairing silence, and he left.   
  
Back outside in the crisp winter air, he found he could breathe more easily. No one followed him, but his ears were sharp enough to pick up the storm that broke loose after he left. He smiled down at the pretty corpse that was soon to be his daughter. "Don't worry, he whispered to her slack face. I won't let you suffer any more." 


	2. The Crypt

ADOILE II - THE CRYPT  
  
By the time he reached the gate of his keep, the sun was a sickly red ball in the western sky. He had shifted the dead weight onto his shoulder, holding her in place with one arm around the back of her knees. The icy wind played with the thin white funeral dress, exposing her legs in a way that would have shamed her had she been alive. The gatekeepers greeted the sight with hoots and laughter.   
  
        "Who's this?"  
  
        "At last! A decent meal."  
  
        "Oh, Lord! We're not worthy!"  
  
        Raziel smiled. "She's already dead, gentlemen." They loudly voiced their disappointment. Raziel addressed one of the men, short but strong, and past the first changes. "You. Are you not Harald's son?"  
  
        "I am, my Lord. My name is Arvin." The laughter had ceased, Arvin regarded him earnestly.  
  
        "I have a task for you. Go to Birktal, follow the main street past the well and up the hill. On your right, you will find a fachwerk house with a tiled roof and a round flagstone path. Assure yourself there is no one inside."   
  
        Arvin nodded.  
  
        "Burn it to the ground."  
  
        Arvin bowed his head. "What if there are people inside?" he asked.  
  
        "Allow them to leave," Raziel said indifferently. "Unless it's the monk. He's yours if you want him."  
  
        "Yes, Lord. Thank you."   
  
        "Do not delay, Arvin."  
  
        Raziel continued into the keep. He was met with curious glances, but asked no questions. Carrying a burning torch in his free hand, he descended the long, winding stairs into the crypt, a place where many of his children had been raised. It was a small set of rooms, with low, arched ceilings. Centuries past, the human inhabitants of this keep had entombed their lords and saints in these chambers. Nothing was left of them now but faded names and dust. He lay his charge onto a granite coverstone, and straightened out her limbs and her clothes. He went to close the heavy steel doors and bar them, and lit the various candles placed around the room. They only seemed to feed the darkness and intensify the inky shadows around the stone caskets, but shadows did not bother Raziel. He sat in the candlelit catacombs for a while, waiting for night to fall properly. If anything was sacred to him, it was this. Making a new vampire child, calling out into the void in the hope his gift would be accepted. It was taxing, but ultimately rewarding, and yet he had not tried in so many years. He loved each of his children, remembered each of the ones he had lost -- to the humans, to stupidity, to melancholy. Some had turned against him and died by his own hand. Their betrayal still pained him.   
  
        The crypt was silent, and darkened as the torch flicked out, leaving only the tiny dots of the candleflames to light the room. The still, pallid corpse seemed to be waiting, silently imploring him to get started. He shook the sad thoughts out of his head and approached it. This was a new child, young and beautiful like no other. She would be his, loving and true, no betrayal would stain her soul. Tenderly, he undid the thin ribbon that tied the front of her dress closed and then ripped it open down to her navel. Skin to skin was the best way. He lay the palm of his left hand on the centre of her chest. Then he slowly closed his eyes, and _reached out._  
  
        He had not done this in a long time, but he had not forgotten how. His spirit loosed itself from its body and opened its eyes. He could see the candles, but their flames were like ice. He was still in the crypt, and yet somewhere completely different. He called out for her. No words, no names existed here, he simply called. The faint remains of a spirit answered, something dead for centuries, but he blew it away, and called again, more forcefully. Only silence. The walls here seemed to shift and twist, and then a sharp noise whistled in his ears and he was jolted back into his body -- if he'd ever left it.  
  
        His heart was pounding, his senses were at their sharpest. He looked around, the crypt was unchanged, the candles, the caskets still and silent, the doors shut and barred. Nothing could have disturbed him here; nothing would have dared. He wondered if there had been a sound, or if there had been nothing but his own fear. He breathed deeply, willing his heart to be still. Four days was not too long, he thought, frowning. In fact, it was his custom to wait for at least two days before breathing new life into an intended child. The longer they remained dead, the less they would remember of their mortal lives, and the easier they would accept their fate. Four days was not very long at all, he had raised dead much older than that. He pressed his hand down on her sternum, and tried again.  
  
        Again, the crypt was twisted and cockeyed, the flames seemed to blaze with a freezing sound. All senses were confused in this state. He looked around without eyes, and called out. This time, she answered. It was a faint and dreamy sound, from a place where sound had no meaning. He knew why he had missed her before; she was barely here at all. _Come to me,_ he called, without words, without a voice, with the pure force of his will. It tugged at her, but she was weighty, anchored to the place outside of places that she inhabited. Her soul seemed to be asleep, something he had never encountered before. He called again, but his demand passed her by as if it did not apply to her. He reached out for her, shook her, tugged at her. He, Raziel, would not be denied. Not by this one. She complained with something between a moan and a hiss. She was waking, but resisting his call. _Come,_ he pleaded, but she slipped away as he was pulled back to the material world.  
  
        He found himself sat on top of her corpse, his hand pressing heavily down on her ribcage. He closed it into a fist in frustration, cutting three deep gashes into her dead flesh. His head was pounding and he felt weak. "Come, come to me," he heard himself murmer, "let me take you back..." He rested his head in his hands. Weariness overwhelmed him. He had pushed himself to the edge to catch her soul, and still he had failed. Her body was still silent, lifeless, unfeeling. Death had bested him. 


	3. Arise

ADOILE III - ARISE  
  
The second loosing of his spirit had left him drained and exhausted. He decided to return later, in this state he could not hope to find her soul. He needed sleep, perhaps a drink. Clumsily, he crawled down from the slab and stumbled to the doors. He fell against the bar and had to rest for a moment before he could shift it. It was as if his soul could not get comfortable in his own body anymore. His vision seemed to blink in and out as he climbed the winding stairs, and he realised he had not tried this hard since he was a fledgeling. He knew it had been hours, but was surprised when he saw pale daylight filtering in through the blinds and curtains in the hallway. His eyes burned. He needed to rest. He locked himself into his inner chamber and welcomed the gentle death of sleep.  
  
He awoke refreshed, but ravenous. What was usually a mild heat in the pit of his stomach had turned into a painful, cramped inferno. He made his way through the bustle of the keep to the east cellars, where they kept their prisoners, delivered to him in payment for the protection he offered. Orphans, strangers guilty of crimes true or imagined, sometimes they were picked by a lottery. It was not his concern. His people needed their sacrifice, and so did he. He kept bottles of preserved blood in his room, but this hunger called for something stronger.  
  
        There was a light flickering at the end of the stone corridor. A few Razielim of the youngest generation were sat at a table, playing a game involving beads of glass. He nodded at them as he walked past. They regarded him wide eyed and muted. In the corridor beyond, there were two mortals chained to the wall, a man and a woman. The man looked sick, plagued by some fever. The restraints had chafed wounds into his wrists that would now never heal. He had been here for a while; the harvest was greatest if the blood was drawn out slowly, over a period of weeks. Raziel passed him by. The other captive was a young woman, who began to stir from her stupor as he approached. She struggled against the shackles around her wrists. Raziel watched her calmly.  
  
        "Please," she whispered when she saw him. "Help me, kind sir! Are you not the lord of this land?"  
  
        Raziel was surprised that she should know such a thing. She was quite an attractive young woman, the soft flesh of her face looked positively appetising.  
  
        "I'm not meant to be here," she continued her plea. He stroked her cheek gently. "I'm no vagrant. I was only travelling to my sister's farm, I am innocent!"   
  
        Raziel smiled. "You are not held here for a crime, my girl," he said softly. His hand travelled up beneath her skirt, over the warm skin of her thigh. Hunger mingled with desire, and it quickened his blood.   
  
        She whimpered. "Please, don't... can't you help me? I didn't do anything wrong..."   
  
        "Listen to me," he whispered in her ear. "You are not here because of any wrong you did. I want you to understand that." He gently moved her hair aside and drew his claws lightly over the skin of her neck. She moaned and strained to turn away from him, a movement that exposed the shallow cuts perfectly. Beads of blood welled up, and he licked them away. He could taste her sweetness, her young, warm blood. He leaned against her, pressing her to the wall. "You are here because I want you to be here," he growled. He took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. "There is no other reason. I wanted you here."   
  
        Her eyes were wide, tears welled up and rolled down her cheek. "Please," she repeated. He smiled and ran his hand down her body. He could feel his heart beat in his throat when he knelt in the dirt before her and lifted her skirts, his hunger an all-consuming fire deep inside him. She suppressed a scream by biting her lip. He breathed deeply, savouring the slightly sour smell she kept hidden under her skirts. One of the main blood-rivers ran close to the skin here; he traced one finger up the inside of her leg to find the spot. He could feel it pulsing under the skin.   
  
        She screamed when he bit her, ripping a chunk of flesh out of her leg and covering the hole with his mouth. A fountain of sweet hot blood coursed down his throat, and he clung tightly to her as she struggled and convulsed, sobbing loudly. He did not draw out her blood, allowing her heart to feed him instead. It was slow, but so much more satisfying. He loved to feed properly.   
  
        The stream slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She had grown still. He heard a small sound behind him and got to his feet. The girl was ghastly pale, flopping from the wall-mounted shackles like a rag doll. He wiped his mouth on her apron.  
  
        "My Lord?" a wary voice asked behind him. "Is anything amiss?"   
  
        Raziel turned to look. It was one of the guards, a thin, young thing with fair hair. He wondered idly who might have chosen to gift him. "No, nothing is amiss. I was simply hungry." He realised how long it had been since he had been down here; he had become so used to bottled blood, he had almost forgotten about the dark pleasure of the kill. The young vampire looked doubtfully at the mortal girl he had been guarding, now dead and worthless. "Please dispose of her for me," Raziel said. The young man nodded.   
  
Restored and emboldened by the meal, he descended into the crypt, where his daughter-to-be was waiting. He would not fail again. He might have given up already, if she had not been so beautiful, so sweetly innocent in death. He wanted her, and he would not give up until she was his. He climbed on top of her now, straddling her cold corpse, and studied her frozen face. Her eyes were open by just a fraction, her burst, dry lips slightly apart. He punctured one of his fingers with his teeth, and painted her lips with a drop of blood.  
  
        "Come, little one," he whispered, "taste the sweets I offer you..." Her chest still showed the gashes he had cut into it the previous night, and he spilled a drop of blood there, too. Then, he grabbed hold of both her shoulders, and rested his forehead against her soft chest, bowing as though in prayer. He knew she was close.  
  
        The familiar displacement, the loss of vision and sound. It was replaced by something that mimicked sound and vision, but wasn't it, just as the crypt was replaced by a similacrum. Although he would never admit to it, he feared this place. He felt that if he was not careful, it would draw him in and hold him prisoner forever. He would be one of those wretched lost souls that howled and sobbed in this dimensionless place. Around him, reality seemed to consist only of sharp angles, ready to tear his soul to shreds. He barely dared to call...  
  
        But he was answered, immediately and from nearby. It was her, awake now, and frightened. Her call was filled with disappointment and confusion, a sense of betrayal. She was panicked, her soul fluttered like a moth against a window pane. The edges of this reality hurt her and threatened to disintegrate her. He sang her a siren's song: _come to me, I have the warmth you seek, I will keep you safe, I will hold you close and whisper your name..._  
  
        A flicker of doubt, then she was his. He grabbed her and pulled her with him back into the real world. Her heart lunged and started beating fast and heavily, desperately trying to make her dead, dry blood flow again. Her eyes flicked open, glazed and blind, and a ragged breath escaped her lips. Raziel had opened the vein in his neck with a claw, and pressed her face against it. Soon enough, she began to suckle the wound of her own accord, and he hugged her close, whispering gentle words to her.  
  
        She moaned and shook, the pain of the transformation wracking her tender body. He held her fast, still feeding her, while she struggled and sobbed, and mutely railed against him: he had betrayed her, he had brought her into a world of pain instead of the sweet garden he'd promised her. He could hear her thoughts as if their souls were still touching. It was unsettling, but he knew it would soon pass.   
  
        "This is the worst," he told her, in the meantime, "keep drinking, and it will soon pass. You are my daughter, and form now on, I will keep you safe from harm. Trust me, it will pass..."   
  
        She drank, and continued to drink until he began to feel the loss of blood, and pulled her away. She was sobbing, crying red-tinted tears, weak with pain and misery. And yet, the blood had already erased the deepest marks the disease had left. Her face looked rounded again, her skin restored and smooth. He embraced her tenderly, stroking her hair, whispering into her curls.   
  
        "I know it hurts. Trust me, it will soon be over. You are safe now, here with me." Slowly, she relaxed and sagged against him.

* * *

AN: The story should really end here, I wrote on for a bit before I realised I was just rambling. You can read the rest if you want, I've put it up mainly because of the introduction (to Adoile) of the six lieutentant in part 5. Please consider this the end of the story, though. 


	4. Awaken

Adoile IVAwakening  
  
She awoke, slowly, a horrible unfamiliarity creeping through her body, furrowing her brow deeply before she even opened her eyes. She did not know where she was, was not even sure who she was. Had she been dreaming? Was she still ill?   
  
She opened her eyes, and saw him, looking down on her with his fiery, yellow eyes. She remembered, with difficulty, the night before. Waking from pain, being cradled by him, his soft voice whispering kind words. He had bathed her, this beauteous, inhuman man, and she flushed furiously at the thought. He had washed the dirt from her skin, shamelessly touching her with his cloven, surprisingly tender hands.   
  
His full, black lips spread into a smile now. "Good evening, my child," he said softly.   
  
She sat up, drawing the covers around her. He had let her sleep in his bed, she remembered. She was still wearing the shift she had been given yesterday, after her bath. She remembered what he had told her then, about blood, and death, and the gift he had given her. "Father..." she whispered.  
  
He laughed briefly. "Please, call me Raziel," he said.   
  
She reached out to touch him. His skin looked solid, as if he had been carved out of ivory, and yet his face was lively. Her fingers traced the curve of his brow, his gaunt cheek, mesmerised. He was cool to the touch, and his skin felt like wood, firm, but alive. He turned his head into the palm of her hand, and she traced her fingers over his lips, so dark, so greedy. "Raziel," she said. "Good evening, Raziel." He kissed her palm and took her slim wrist into his clawed hand.   
  
Suddenly, his head snapped round to the door, as if he'd heard something she had not. His manner stiffened immediately. "Come, it is past sundown, " he said, standing up. "I have much to show you."  
  
Clumsily, she slipped out from the protective covers to put on the clothes he had laid out for her on a bedside table. He sat on the bed and watched her calmly. She felt confused, he had seen all the night before, and besides, he was her father. Yet, she felt embarrassed to be undressed before him, ashamed and at the same time strangely exited. She slipped into the simple black dress, and tied the cincture at the back. It had been made for a woman with a much larger bosom, but fit her fairly well besides. She looked at him to gauge his reaction, and he smiled, his sharp teeth glistening in the torch-light. He opened the door, and she followed him outside, bare feet on rich, red carpet.  
  
The room the door led into was long and spacious, with a large window at the end. It was lit with scores of candles, and lavishly decorated with drapes and paintings. There was a woman standing in the middle of the room, a vampire woman, with deep brown, wavy hair and a velvety dress of red and dark blue. She had her hands clasped in front of her, the attitude of one waiting patiently, but she looked at Raziel with a little smirk.  
  
"Were you going to introduce us at all, or were you planning to keep her all to yourself?" she asked teasingly.  
  
"Rusanna, meet Adoile," Raziel said stiffly.   
  
The woman took a step forward and offered her hand, palm facing downwards. When Adoile took it, she curtsied deeply and introduced herself, "Rusanna Sophia Raziela vie Candadis, at your service." Adoile glanced at Raziel. She only had one name, as far as she knew.   
  
"Adoile Raziela," Rusanna said, "it is a pleasure to meet you. I hope we shall be friends as well as sisters."   
  
Adoile felt her father's strong hand on her shoulder, pulling her away from Rusanna by just a fraction. "Rusanna is my daughter's daughter," he explained, "she generally takes care of the initial education of our young."  
  
"Generally, my Lord?" Rusanna asked, mildly alarmed.  
  
"I will instruct Adoile myself, Rusanna. I have a special position in mind for her."  
  
"As you wish," the woman said and curtsied again. Adoile could hear the disappointment in her voice though, and there was a flash of something dangerous in her eyes. "But I do fear you dote on her too much, my Lord. You would spoil her character." She reached out and touched Adoile's hair. Her hands were clawed, like his, but the touch was cold, almost hostile.  
  
"Don't you worry yourself over that, child," Raziel chided her and opened the door as an invitation for her to leave. With another nod, she left. Raziel looked over his shoulder at Adoile, and smiled. He gestured for her to follow and went out into the hall. "Rusanna was a noblewoman in life," he explained as they walked through the hallway. "She attaches much value to proper etiquette, and to lineage. As my daughter, you are her better, as young as you are. Others may not see things the same way though, in many situations experience counts more heavily than lineage. Nonetheless, all should treat you with respect. I wish to hear if they do not." He glanced at her briefly, and she nodded, trying to take in everything he said. They descended a long flight of stairs into a large courtyard. They passed others, vampires all, who regarded her curiously, or nodded and bowed to them. She stuck to Raziel like a shadow, as he led her on through corridors and hallways. "I have already told you what you are. In life, you feared our kind, perhaps, and not without reason. Your dead body requires a blood-sacrifice to animate and restore itself. Your soul, the part of you that was never dead, has grown much stronger by its stay in the underworld, but it will need blood to sustain its life here. You will need to drink a little each night, or suffer terrible pains. It is a small matter though; you will get used to it soon enough."  
  
Adoile looked up at him, his noble profile, the look of perfect confidence on his face. She knew, dimly, that she had drunk his blood the night before, but she remembered neither the taste of it, nor the sensation. It bewildered her that the prospect of drinking blood appealed to her so much. It should have repelled her, but instead it seemed like the most natural thing, and she knew she would indeed get used to it soon. In fact, she couldn't wait.  
  
"You are young yet, and vulnerable." Raziel continued. "For now, you will stay inside the keep, where rain nor sunlight will be able to find you. I will provide you with sustenance, and a place to rest during the day." He put his hand on her shoulder again and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "I will keep you safe." It seemed like an echo. /I have the warmth you seek, I will keep you safe.../ She remembered his voice, but it seemed this was a long time ago, in another lifetime, almost...  
  
They climbed another flight of stairs, spiraling up into one of the towers. Raziel's voice echoed in the ancient stone staircase, the steps worn and rough. This part of the castle seemed very different to the rest.   
  
"It is time for a history lesson, first of all." 


	5. Kain's Sons

Adoile VKAIN'S SONS  
  
She followed her father into a large, round room, lit only by shafts of dimmed moonlight that fell through arrow-slits in the wall. Raziel bore a candle, and went around the room to light the oil-lamps hanging from the wall. There was a round table in the middle of the room, covered with papers, it seemed. As the light grew, she noticed there were paintings on the wall, seven portraits, and banners with seven symbols hanging beneath them, their colours faded with time. Her father began to speak in the slow, deliberate tone of one telling a story told many times before.  
  
"Once, Nosgoth knew a golden age. The pillars, endless and unshaken, preserved and balanced the life of this world in a perfect harmony. But the humans charged with the guardianship of the pillars turned traitors, they destroyed the very edifices they were sworn to protect, and Nosgoth plunged into chaos and destruction. In his grace, Kain, Lord of the underworld, came forth to restore order to the land of Nosgoth. He brought six lieutenants, six demon lords with the power to restore life to the fallen."   
  
The lights had all been lit, and Adoile could now clearly see the portraits. One she recognised with a little shock. It was Raziel, looking more human, younger perhaps, though it might as well be the artist's eye. She looked from the portrait to the man himself, and he smiled.  
  
"Yes, that's me. As the myth would have it, me and my brethren chose worthy warriors to aid us in our campaign and gifted them with eternal life. We each spawned an army, and, led by Lord Kain, we conquered Nosgoth and thus preserved it from total destruction."  
  
There was a candelabra in the middle of the table, and Raziel leaned over to light the candles, one by one. Strewn across the smooth wood surface were notes and maps, some detailed and precise, some roughly drawn with arrows and arcane symbols. Adoile studied them, but did not understand any of it. Raziel spoke more softly, his eyes distant, a smile on his dark lips.  
  
"I fought at Kain's side as he secured his empire. Before the sanctuary was built, before the mortals accepted us as their masters, we gathered our forces in this ancient castle, then reduced to ruin, but for the tower. In this room, we met, discussed our strategies, celebrated our victories." He looked around him. "We built him a throne then, set at the base of the ruined pillars, and a palace surrounding it. This castle he left to me. I had it rebuilt and expanded, but this room I kept as it was, and still have, in honour of my brothers and my Lord." He turned around and gestured to one of the portraits, the only one, Adoile noticed now, that had a banner hanging above it, rather than below. The symbol on it was long and symmetrical, and vaguely suggested a creature with wings. She approached the painting.  
  
"Lord Kain," she whispered, awed by the idea that he himself had stood here in this very room. The face in the portrait was compelling, not beautiful, but it exuded a palpable kind of power. The skin was paler than Raziel's, almost white, and he had long white hair bound together at the back. His eyes were yellow, and bespoke an irresistible force of will. There was a large metal ring in his right ear, marked with mysterious symbols. It surprised her that the Lord of Nosgoth should look so human; she had expected something more demonic, something more like the devils in that picture-book... Her thoughts stopped abruptly. She did not know what book it was, or when or where she had seen it. She frowned. How strange, that though she clearly remembered that Kain was the Lord of Nosgoth, the land she lived in, she could remember nothing about herself. Not her name, nor her family. She turned to Raziel, her new and only father.  
  
"He doesn't look so terrible."   
  
"No?" Raziel asked, amused.  
  
"I heard his eyes could turn a man to stone, and that when he raised his voice, the ground shook and the heavens cried."  
  
Raziel nodded gravely. "Yes, that is true." A mocking little smile flashed across his lips, before he became serious again. "I think you will find him a just ruler, Adoile. Powerful, and undeniable, but. you need not fear him. Although, if you value your life, you would be wise not to invoke his wrath." He seemed quite serious when he added, "Or mine."  
  
She nodded devoutly.   
  
"You will address him with 'my Lord' or 'Sire', for he is the father of all vampires, and you should either kneel of curtsy deeply." He looked at her doubtfully. "Do you know how to curtsy?"  
  
She smiled sheepishly and bent her knees, dipping slightly. He shook his head resolutely.   
  
"No. You have to cross your legs like this, and dip much deeper." He showed her how, and she had to press her hand against her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle. She turned away, flustered. Raziel was unfazed. "Go on, try again." He steered her so she faced Kain's portrait, and she tried to copy her teacher.   
  
"Keep your back straight. Only bow your head."   
  
She tried again.  
  
"Much better. You can practice more later. It never hurt anyone to have a sense of decorum. If you should meet the other lieutenants you ought to address them with 'my Lord'. Anyone else you may call 'sir' or 'my lord' if you wish to be polite, but in principle, none are your betters but me and my brothers."   
  
She nodded, eagerly taking it all in. She felt honoured to be taught by Raziel himself, the son of Kain, and Lord of all the vampires in the castle.  
  
"Can you read these signs?" Raziel asked, gesturing at the coloured banners. She shook her head. "I will teach you. That, as you have guessed, is Kain's insignia. Any who bear it are in his service, and they are free to go anywhere they please." He turned slightly, and pointed to the portrait to the left of it. The banner was a faded ochre colour, with a curved symbol imprinted in black. "That is the sign of my brother Melchiah. His people live to the west of here, among the gullies and mines of the Gintland. They produce the best steel in all of Nosgoth; most of the weapons and armour we use is from Melchiah's mines." The man in the portrait was bald and square-faced. His mouth looked set and stern, but his eyes seemed kind. Adoile repeated his name, and Raziel moved on to the next portrait.   
  
"Rahab you will hear much about, his territory lies to the south and borders mine. We regularly have disputes about where exactly this border lies, and as a result our clans have grown to dislike each other. He is not quarrelsome himself, though, on the contrary. He is a peace-loving soul, and very knowledgeable. He could tell you more about Nosgoth's history than even me." The face in the portrait looked fierce and willful however, not at all like the scholar Raziel described. His clothing in the portrait was blue, like his banner, and his symbol was curvaceous, almost sensual. Adoile traced its line with her hand as she repeated his name.  
  
"This is Dumah, a fearsome warrior. He lives in Nosgoth's northernmost city, amid the snow and ice of the mountains." Fearsome was indeed how Adoile would describe the man in the portrait. She repeated his name under her breath, determined to remember. His banner was a dark purple, with a sharp-edged symbol on it in white. "Dumah's clan is known for its prowess in battle. In the North there are still tribes of mortals unwilling to accept Kain's rule. Dumah is the one who cuts them back when this becomes necessary."  
  
Raziel moved past his own portrait to the next of his brothers. The vampire in it was portrayed with a slight smile on his face. His lips were dark, like Raziel's, and his ears were elegantly pointed and longer than those of his brothers. "That sign means Turel, the eldest, but for me. His clan lives to the far north-east, where they man the furnaces that keep the sky dark and the sun weak." He smiled fondly, looking at the portrait. "Turel and I have always been close, he is a fine man, brave in battle, and his loyalty to Kain is an example to all." Adoile noted the banner beneath. The colour had faded to almost black, but she could still tell it had once been dark green. The symbol on it was angular, claw-like. She repeated the name, as Raziel moved on to the next.  
  
The last portrait was of someone who looked younger than the others. The man in the picture was handsome, and smiling proudly. His features were fine and delicate, his skin almost as pale as Kain's. He was rather handsome, though Adoile was happy to note that he was not as handsome as Raziel. "Finally, this is Zephon, who lives far to the east, in a cathedral once built by humans to defy us vampires. He has many mortal servants; they worship him as a God, turning to him in prayer and offering their blood willingly. Zephon is often inscrutable, but very intelligent. He was our strategist in the battles for Nosgoth's domination, and he steered us towards victory many a time." Zephon's sign was made up of sharp curves, like grasping fingers. There was something unpleasant about it, although Adoile liked his portrait well enough.   
  
They had come round to Kain's portrait again, having circled the room. Adoile turned around to the only painting he had not commented on.   
  
"And what about yourself?" she asked, brazenly. "Have you nothing to say about your own clan?"  
  
Raziel smiled. "In various times, and to various people, I have been known as Raziel the Indestructible, Raziel the Favoured, the Beauteous --" he turned to her with a little smile, "Raziel the Cruel. Now, I am simply Raziel, firstborn of Kain's sons. That is my signet, you will find it everywhere in Darstein. You will also see this half of it, with a little star to one side." He indicated the left half of the sign, and she nodded. She had seen that on banners, doors and even on one man's back. "That is the sign for my clan, the Razelim. We have held this keep for over eight centuries, and will probably remain here until the end of our world. We don't keep many mortal servants here, I have found they are more trouble than they are worth. The work is done by our fledglings -- that means you." He looked at her slightly apologetically. She nodded simply. "I want you to become my personal servant, Adoile. You will be charged with keeping my rooms in order, carrying messages, receiving guests and taking care of my arms and clothing."   
  
She looked up at him with a grateful smile. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but this did not sound bad. They were all things she could do, or at least thought she could learn to do, and it would mean he would always be close by.   
  
"You think you could manage all that?" he asked.  
  
She nodded. "I would love to." 


End file.
